


Binds Of Blood

by cjr09



Category: Eldemore
Genre: and it begins again, let me tell you there will be MANY tags added as this nonsense goes on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 04:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6224818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjr09/pseuds/cjr09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She remembers a story, then- a story of how she was made.</p><p>She was made of snow and ice, of deep water and vicious currents- a freezing, bone deep cold both above the water and below that destroyed lesser beings; the howling wind ripping the very soul from those who succumb to the freeze, to her snow.</p><p>She is the child of ash and Ancients and she will not be defeated so easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Binds Of Blood

There is a marking on her arm.

 

It's fairly obvious- it covers the entirety of her right forearm, black borders wrapping around her wrist and just below her elbow, pointed spikes facing into the cage they form- they cage a swooping v-like shape, point of the marking aimed towards her elbow, the points of the 'v' sweeping out in two branching lines on either side.

 

There is a marking on her arm, and the people of her village try not to look at it.

 

It is always cold here- snow blankets the ground constantly, the sea spray always freezing as ice drifts sluggishly by on the horizon- this is enough to make most people bundle up, though she does not seem to mind the ice and the threat of its bite. She does not cover herself in so many layers, and the marking is easily seen, though none dare to catch either it or her eyes, preferring to keep them squinted against the sleet or the blinding whiteness of the snow or her gaze.

 

There is a marking on her arm, and her mother does not look at it.

 

To her mother, it is yet another mark of the mistake in creating her- her mismatched eyes should be proof enough of her mother's folly, but it seemed she lived to irritate. Her mother does not try to make her cover her mark, though she may think to do so sometimes, and she does not do so anyway.

 

There is a marking on her arm, and her mother does not look at her but instead looks to the horizon.

 

Her mother is looking for something, or someone, who she cares for above all else. Her mother forgets that she is her mother, sometimes, and some of the other villagers have cots set up in their homes for when this happens, as it has with increasing urgency of late. She does not know who her mother is looking for, but she does not like them.

 

There is a marking on her arm, and it tugs her to the sea.

 

Like her mother, she finds herself drawn to the waves- sits on the edge of a fishing hole in the ice and dangles her feet into it and plays with the curious cuttlefish who come to poke at her toes until she catches the attention of one of the fisherman and they hurriedly make her go back inside or take up one of the spears the children are allowed to have only for learning how to spear the small fish that flicker just under the surface of the water. She is better with her spear than the other children, though she does not catch anything with it, though a few of the other children have urged her to spear the cuttlefish that wind around her fingers as she waves them in the freezing waters. She does not try- the cuttlefish grant wishes, and she does not wish anything dead.

 

There is a marking on her arm, and as it pulls her to the sea it tugs her south, further inland and into warmer weather.

 

She itches to move- to adventure like so many of the books the villagers read to her, like the book of  legends she carries close to her chest; the only thing her mother gave her- to see what lies beyond the endless whiteness of the land and the endless blue of the ocean. She wants to see the ends of Eldemore and everything in it, and then everything beyond.

 

There is a marking on her arm, and it grows more insistent as time crawls on.

 

She looks to her mother, with her eyes on the sea- her mother does not turn to look at her, even when she tugs on the edge of her coat- her eyes are on the sea, searching, waiting. She follows her mother's gaze and waits with her- watching, waiting- and when nothing reveals itself, she turns away. She does not know what her mother waits for, but it will not come, and she has no want to meet it.

 

There is a marking on her arm, and she finally covers it with the coat she rarely wears, fitting the rest of her belongings into a backpack- she follows the stories on this, and packs as much clothing as she  can fit into it, leaving room only for her book of legends and anything else she feels she should take with her.

 

There is a marking on her arm, and the itch is strong.

 

She takes a carving knife for gutting the fish and fits it into her belt, mostly hidden underneath the thick fur- she doesn't know how to use it beyond carving up a fish, but having it seems better than not- even the healers of her stories have some kind of weapon on them, and her mother either does not notice or does not care for its loss. Her eyes are on the ocean.

 

There is a marking on her arm, and it burns now.

 

She looks at her mother, who stares at the sea, and wonders if she will miss her marked daughter, and wonders if that marked daughter will miss her mother. She does not think either of them will- they are not friends, and they do not speak to each other much. Still, many adventurers miss their home when they leave, though this is not her home.

 

She picks up her spear and looks to her mother, who looks to the sea, and her mark burns still, and itch under her skin, but the spear is a familiar and reassuring weight that cools the burn slightly, even if she has never hit anything with it.

 

She thinks she will learn, and she does not say goodbye as she leaves. Her mother does not turn to see her off, and she does not turn back. She waves goodbye as she leaves and the villagers wave back in confusion, but don't stop her. When they realize they try to hide the relief on their faces, though the upturn of their lips isn’t hard to see. She wonders what they are relieved of more- not having a marked child with mismatched eyes in their midst, or not having another mouth to feed with winter’s hold threatening to close in on them once again.

 

The village leader has a bonded creature- a magnificent, graceful deer-like creature called an Elkrin- with dark fur and blue fire around her tail and hooves. The doe follows her as far as three days walk- curled around her at night to keep her warm, pointing out the berries and fruit that are safe to eat, but when they make it to the first river the doe stops. She holds out her left hand to the doe and she presses her cold nose to her right hand instead, and is gone.

 

She mourns the loss, the first night. It is nice to have someone to keep her warm, but she knows how to make fire and as she travels there is only more dry wood. It is lonely, and she is at the mercy of the forest animals for the most part, so she stays close to the riverbank where the most dangerous creatures are typically the friendly Otterlings along the bank. She fancies them like lucky charms, and every time she sees one she pulls some of the safe-to-eat fruit from above where the Otterlings can reach and leaves it out for them, then walks on.

 

Sometimes she sees a flicker of blue flame out of the corner of her eye, and she is grateful she wasn’t left on her own. It is nice, every once and a while, but she cannot return now and the Elkrin cannot follow forever. She spears a fish and cooks it over a fire for lunch, and the Elkrin watches for a while, her only movement the dancing of the flames on her body, then leaves for good as a few brave Otterlings dart in and out of the water as they try to snag the fallen pieces of fish without getting too close to her.

 

It is a better parting, this time, and she knows that she and the doe will not meet again. She is not bitter- she was not wanted in the village, and it would never be her home. She is glad the leader did not try and stop her out of some false sense of protectiveness or to keep up appearances; she is pale skin and dark hair and gold and blue eyes and a marking upon her skin and grown men flinch when they meet her eyes.

 

She is young. She is weak. She is twice-marked with the misfortune of her birth.

 

She is _Tetra,_  and she spears an apple off a tree, because she can, and her spear clatters to the ground with the dull thud of wood on rock. She picks it up and lets an Otterling play tug-of-war with her until they get the apple free and scamper off with their prize.

 

Tetra smiles. She will not be weak for long.

 

There is a marking on her arm, and it burns as she walks.

 

There is a marking on her arm, and it tells her to _go._

**Author's Note:**

> "because she can" is a phrase you're gonna hear a LOT with Tetra whooooo buddy
> 
> maybe I'll finish this one who knows
> 
> idk welcome to the prologue chapter


End file.
